Forever and Ever by Patricia Gaffney Page A

it gently behind her ear. An audacious liberty. What would she do?
    Her hands at his chest froze. She looked up, into his eyes, and he saw all her innocence and interest, the trepidation and the excitement, in her level blue stare. He bent his head to her; in one second, he knew they would kiss, and in the next, he knew they would not. Her doing—yes, but his, too, because such a thing was forbidden, and it was unthinkable. Still holding her gaze, unable to break it, he took a step back, then another.
    The distance steadied them. She ran her left hand nervously up and down her right arm, clearing her throat. “Go and see Dr. Hesselius tonight. He’ll be home by six, I should think. His house is directly across from the inn. The First and Last Inn,” she specified—unnecessarily, since there was only one inn in Wyckerley. “You’ll go and see him, won’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    She nodded, relieved. “And don’t come to work tomorrow. He’ll probably sew up your arm, and you’ll need a few days to rest it.”
    “No, I’ll be in tomorrow.”
    “But that’s
foolish.
”
    He walked to the door. “Will you pay me for the time I spend recovering?”
    “Pay you? No. Pay you when you’re not working?” She was nonplussed—honestly bewildered.
    “It’s a novel concept,” he conceded mildly. “Coal miners in Durham are striking for it.”
    “Striking.”
Her eyes widened in horror; she said the word like a curse.
    He couldn’t help smiling. Or saying the word again. “Striking.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “See you on Saturday, Miss Deene,” he said, and left her alone.

VI
    Midsummer Day, June twenty-fourth, wasn’t what it used to be. Twenty or thirty years ago, people from all the neighboring villages in St. Giles’ parish flocked to Wyckerley for the annual festival, which in those days had also served as a midyear hiring fair. But that function had gradually fallen into disuse, superseded by bigger, showier fairs in Tavistock and Plymouth, and now Midsummer Day in Wyckerley was chiefly an opportunity for the locals to have a half holiday, gather on the green on a typically glorious day, and amuse themselves with games and entertainments, contests and music, refreshments, a rummage sale, and anything else the All Saints Ladies’ Vestry Committee could think of—because the proceeds of the day went toward financing church programs for the rest of the year.
    The rummage sale this year, thanks to a vigorous solicitation campaign for donations led by Anne Morrell and Emmaline Nineways, was, by eleven o’clock in the morning, a rousing success. Villagers eager for bargains scoured the tables set up in the grassy back garden of the vicarage, choosing from a wide array of secondhand treasures. Two items were deemed to be so especially desirable—Captain Carnock’s collection of military memorabilia and a dozen of the blacksmith John Swan’s finest handmade fishing lures—that written bids were being taken on them for an auction to be held at the end of the day.
    “I want that camera,” Anne confided out of the side of her mouth as she poured two cups of tea from a heavy urn and handed one to Sophie. “Your cousin bought it in Exeter a year ago and she’s never used it, and now she’s asking
four guineas
for it.”
    “Highway robbery,” Sophie agreed, glancing at the item in question, a Knight and Ottewill double-folding camera with a collapsible bellows covered in black waterproof cloth. “How much did she pay for it?”
    “Well, that’s not the point, is it? It’s not
new
, and whether she used it or not, the price should reflect that. I think it should be a third lower. To take into account depreciation.”
    Sophie smiled at the illogic in her friend’s reasoning. Anne could afford a brand-new camera—she was an heiress—but it was like her to hold out for a bargain on a used one. Especially if she could get the better of Honoria in the process. “What did you contribute to the